


getting you alone isn't easy to do

by doomedteaparty



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble, I guess????, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 08:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomedteaparty/pseuds/doomedteaparty
Summary: Oris doesn't like the assassin, never does.But Zevran will gladly wait until he does.(a short drabble)





	getting you alone isn't easy to do

**Author's Note:**

> warning for, you guessed it, depictions of bloody red things inside a darkspawn's belly. hopefully not enough to warrant a Mature rating.
> 
> (the title is from a song. guess which.)

For the two men to work well together in killing is one thing; for them to _actually_ be impressed with the other's killing method is... another.

Oris couldn't understand the assassin's combat techniques at first. Who would want to cripple just one target, leave them bleeding on the ground, and then moving on to another? Too convoluted—troublesome. Why hide in the shadows, when you could charge into the fray and unleash your powers on the horde? Hiding helps nothing.

Zevran, on the other hand, found the battlemage's "tactics" baffling. For the man to have a hundred swords pointed at him, when he could have easily slipped past the enemies and kick each one of them in the legs, is horribly unnecessary. He does like a little overconfidence now and then, but even the Crows did not teach him to handle four murderous Ogres all at once. That's not a job for assassins.

Speaking of four murderous Ogres....

"… Fuck me."

Oris cussed under his breath; his eyes warily gazed upon the four towering monstrosities that were feasting on a pile of corpses in front of them.

The _two _of them.

At least they hadn’t noticed them, yet.

A foul stench hung on the air; the previously-fresh morning breeze tainted with the smell of blood and rotten flesh from the corpses. Heaps upon heaps of dead bodies stacked high at the center of the forest clearing, with the darkspawns feasting on them. Their blood had long since dried and seeped into the forest floor.

He didn't even know how he could find himself traveling in so small a number—with this assassin to boot. They had intended to find a source of water in this forest, not challenge gigantic darkspawns to tangle. Fate, of course, had other plans.

“I’m trying.”

“What?”

Zevran cleared his throat. “I mean—we're going to sneak past them, no? ... No?” One of the Ogres, still munching on a piece of rotten thigh, started flailing its hand around. The hand that was probably bigger than an entire house, from the looks of it. “You're either brave or foolish.”

"I take the brave. _You_ be the foolish."

"... Now you sound just like Taliesen."

"Who's—Maker!”

His gaze met with the Ogre’s.

_“—Watch out_!"

That was a close call. The giant chunk of carcass the Ogre hurled at them hit at nothing--the two men already ducked far to the right. They shot knowing glances for a second, and nodded. Both knew what to do.

Oris activated a spell he had prepared before—a wave of entropic miasma weakened the Ogres surrounding him, rendering their movement sluggish and heavy. He readied his swords, held his breath, and waited. Just a few seconds more.

The spell got their attention.

"Now!"

That was their cue. The battlemage whirled around, enchanted blades in hand; each hacked through the Ogres' legs and sent them roaring in pain. Meanwhile, the assassin slipped behind and made sure his daggers left a gruesome mark on each of their ankles. Oris released his second spell. A disorienting aura began to encircle him, sending the Ogres tumbling back. Zevran quickly moved out of the way; his eyes watching in confusion.

"Wait, what?”

"Shh.”

The Ogres stopped. One of them fell to the ground, finally succumbing to the substance Zevran had poisoned it with; bubbling blackish blood popping from an open wound on his leg. Oris immediately grabbed the assassin's hand, and ran. The other man jolted in surprise.

"Wait, _what_?”

"Just shut up and run!"

The four Ogres finally broke out of their trance. They began their chase; big thunderous feet galloping on the deserted field, their voluminous roar being the only sound they could hear. Zevran cocked his head as far as he could, trying to see the things they were running from more clearly—but all he could see were his hair swaying in the wind, and the pommel end of his dagger, and—

—something exploded.

“Holy mother of….”

The one Ogre he had poisoned went down with a _blast_—literally. Its body convulsed, twitching violently, before bursting into a gory mess of wet flesh and bones; injuring the three remaining Ogres—and they _too_ began to explode. A chain of gruesome detonations soon took place, ending with unrecognizable lumps of darkspawn innards, blackish blood, and entrails sprawling all across the forest clearing. None of them survived.

The assassin stood there. Stunned.

"… While you were busy… doing your thing, I picked the most injured out of them and… planted a spell on it," Oris began explaining, still breathing heavily. "Didn't expect an open wound... would help the spell to run... faster, but it did. That was awesome." He glanced at their "work" with pride. “Even if it’s... a little messy.”

"You called _me_ awesome?" Zevran laughed. His eyes stared at him as if he was the most impossible thing that could have existed in all of Thedas. "But _I'm_ not the one who blew up those bastards to bits, Oris!"

“I didn’t say you were awesome. I said _we_ are awesome.” The battlemage shrugged. “… Bah. Forget it. Every time I try complimenting you, _this_ always happens.”

"It's not only that! You don't sound so much as Taliesen after all, thank the Maker."

He did not care to know who Taliesen is—there was enough on their mind as it was. The water, for instance. They walked to the nearest stream of river and began washing the blood off of their equipments.

"Don't touch the blood. Darkspawn taint’s not good for you.”

"I know."

The water was cold, but refreshing—and the view around them was breathtaking. Dark green forest enveloping the small river stream; the warm sunlight barely made its way through their leaves. In the distance, ruins of what had once been the Imperial Highway stood forlornly still, as if waiting for the day it finally crumbled to the earth. Almost made fighting those darkspawns worthwhile.

The two men stood there, smiling faintly, letting the beauty enraptured them for a while.

"I'm more of a city elf myself…, but this is quite amazing."

"I know."

There was no time to admire the sun, sadly; and after three skins of leather pouch had been filled and their weapons clean of darkspawn blood, it was time to return to the camp. If only such beauty could exist in all places. Maybe then the Blight wouldn't be so bad.

"How about you start complimenting me more often in the future, eh?" The assassin asked with a wide smile, nudging him on the shoulder. "I _really_ like the sound of it.”

Oris let out a sarcastic huff.

"Suuure.” He smirked. “Should I also start calling you ‘awesome’ every morning, just for the kick of it? I'll even vouch for you in case you ever want to... who knows, start a business, join the army, take up a partner, whatever. Least I can do."

"Oh-ho, does that mean I already get a headstart with you?"

"What?"

A hesitant pause. "... I mean, does that mean we are friends, now?"

Their footsteps came to a halt.

.

.

.

As crass as it sounds, being captured by a target is a total and utter crap.

It doesn't help that the man he's targeting turns out to be a very angry and unforgiving elven man who could probably kill someone just by staring at them, not to mention his lack of hesitancy regarding shoving a sword down his throat. Not that he hadn't dealt with more dangerous targets before. Royals, head guards, trigger-happy apostates....

_Fellow assassins…._

Yet, this man and his three other companions _(**three**! Imagine the humiliation!) _managed to best a throng of Crow assassins in just a matter of minutes.

He should've used poison.

What good does that do now? He's trapped.

Still, this is not what he'd expected when he made the deal with Loghain. He only knew that one of the two surviving Grey Wardens is a mage. For an assassin, mage is a special case of target who needs certain tactics to bring down (unless one were to use "the subtler method"—but that is for another topic). The process must happen quickly before the target could sling any crippling spell on him. Tricky, but doable.

However, this man is not the kind of mage he had in mind. He wields swords, not staff, and his attire is the alluringly shapely leather armor—not robes.

One of the swords had found its way under his neck.

"Don't move," the elven man commanded. He circled the fallen assassin cautiously; staring at him right in the eyes. Light, muted grey eyes, he noted. The kind that glimmer under the sunlight but look incredibly dull otherwise.

However, eyeing his other features he knew the man would make a fine—lucrative, even—male prostitute... given the opportunity and time.

He looks distinctive, and intriguing. Pale white hair and faded marks of what had once been tattoos on his right cheek. The tattoos accentuate his slim cheekbones, and the many buckles he wears accentuate his breastplate perfectly. Needless to say, it was rather hard to concentrate on the man's creepy gray eyes alone. He had to cough to break the gaze.

"… So you still haven’t killed me yet?”

"Silence!" The man snapped, pressing the sword even tighter. Oh, if only he knew swords and knives no longer frighten him. He's had much, much worse... beneath the sheets. "You'll speak when ordered to."

"Oh, so it is questions you have for me, hmm?" The assassin smirked. At this rate, he'd much prefer a good beating from a handsome brute, but a man can't have everything.

This is going to be so much fun.

_._

_._

_._

If there is one thing he didn't expect from this new companion, is that he could kill more darkspawns within two minutes than he in ten.

The first time he noticed, they had caught up with a horde of darkspawns on the outskirts of Ferelden, with a towering Ogre at its head. Two emissaries were seen near the back lines. 

Spellcasters, he thought. Shutting down spellcasters should be the first of their priority.

Usual diamond formation. Leliana took air cover--she silently snipped down lesser darkspawns one by one, while Oris charged the front lines, and Morrigan controlled the battlefied with her magic by the sides. The battlemage made sure all hostilities were directed at him. The darkspawn archers, the blade-wielders, the Ogre. Even the spellcasters.

He could shrug down the attacks, no big deal. But he couldn't reach the two emissaries in time. One of them was already caught within his telekinetic prison, but the other was still out and about—and Oris already felt his magic draining. The drawback of being a combat-oriented mage.

_The assassin. He's good with mages._

"You!" The battlemage shouted—_what’s his name again? Gah, fuck it_. "That darkspawn over there! Take it down!" He could see the elven man nodded as he disappeared amidst the darkspawn hordes, slipping behind the lone emissary and slid a poisoned dagger inside its abdomen.

The big, towering Ogre was still hot on their heels. With its movement sluggish due to the mage's entropic aura, he figured it would pose no bigger threat than the fallen emissaries they'd just taken down.

Wrong.

Oris gulped as the monstrosity grabbed him by the chest, choking the life out of him. He was almost out of mana by now. Nothing he could do.

Leliana began shooting coated arrows at the Ogre's eyes, diverting its attention. Morrigan circled behind and started chanting curses, beriddling it with hexes. The battlemage held his breath. This wasn't the first time, anyway. He could get through this.

Everything turned black—

—and the grip loosened.

Oris got up as soon as his feet touched the soil. The Ogre wasn't down yet. Using what little mana he could summon, he placed one final spell on the weakened monstrosity; forcibly draining its health to restore some he had lost.

The Ogre roared. It wasn't enough.

"Die!"

Someone beat him to it. Perched on the giant's back, was the assassin. He had been blissfully backstabbing the Ogre until his vest was drenched in blackish blood; until it finally lost its grip on the battlemage and fell to the ground. Another hack to the throat finished the job.

The Ogre roared its last. It was enough.

"Did you—“ the battlemage spoke, dumbfounded, as his wily saviour jumped down and gave him the most inappropriately disturbing self-satisified smirk a man could probably ever muster. "… Well. That's… that’s unexpected."

"That was exhilarating, yes?" he responded. Darkspawn blood was dripping from the tip of his daggers. "If it wasn't a battle of life and death I would have asked for a round two!"

If he weren't the one grasping for life at the hands of that Ogre, he would have agreed.

"You might want to clean that blood. Just in case." The battlemage breathed, still worn out by exhaustion. "Don't want you to catch the taint. And, uh..., uh, thanks. For that."

The assassin smiled. Smirked, more like, but it hardly looked different with blood splattered across his face.

"Dare I say that is the most heartfelt thing you've ever said to me since you decided not to kill me?"

Oris sighed. "Don’t... get the wrong idea. I didn’t—“

_._

_._

_._

Zevran learned something new about the battlemage every day.

They had been talking a little more ever since the darkspawn incident. Usually on the road, especially during the rare times Alistair took charge of the group, and the both of them could walk side-by-side at the far end of the entourage. Talking about random things; this and that.

_How does one kill someone like him?_

During the times when they remain in silence, Zevran would ponder at the man's figure and think of all the possible ways to kill him. Mostly it involves undressing--but seeing as the battlemage still looks as if he could kill somebody just by staring at them, he put off the thought for another time. Poison? For someone who consumes lyrium on a daily basis? Perhaps not.

_There are poisons made specifically for mages._

Not that he wanted to kill the man, no. He is beholden to him, after all. Let's say there are other Crow assassins coming after him—and there are bound to be some—someone should inform them that the usual “caravan attacked by bandits” trick wouldn’t work on this man. They need to find some other ways. _Let's hope it's not by undressing._

"… I've been thinking, Oris." Hopefully he got the name right. It was rather hard to converse with all the ruckuses of the marketplace, so he decided to walk side by side the battlemage instead. "You're the sort of man who wouldn't mind being asked ridiculous and pointless questions, yes?”

Cocking his head to the side, and barely slowing his pace so the assassin could catch up, Oris gave him a slight 'huh'.

“Depends on how ridiculous it is.”

"Are those…," he paused, gazed over the direction the man was looking at, found that he was eyeing a certain pair of swords hung above an armorer’s market stall, about two feet from where they were standing—and finally settled on staring at the man's whole features for all his delight. A shoddy excuse, one would say, but his life is chockful of excuses already. "... tattoos on your face, my friend? I wasn't aware Circle mages could have one. Well, perhaps in Ferelden...."

Oris gave him a perplexed look. "Have you been looking at my face?”

"Is there any reason not to?"

“… Never mind.”

As their conversation continued, the marketplace had crowded to the point they lost sight of Alistair and the rest of their party. Fine, he thought. They could just meet up at the tavern this evening. Oris had stopped in front of the armorer’s stall; picking up something that looked like a pair of thick leather gloves from the counter, studied them for a moment, before putting them down again.

"No, no. It’s not a mage thing. Mother… uh, I mean my nanny—she painted them for me when I was still in the Alienage, covered up some old scratches I can’t remember by now. I think I was playing ‘pretend to be a Chasind’ something…. Weird that they haven't faded already."

Zevran laughed at that. He wasn't sure what for, but he laughed anyway.

"Why would you want to? Huh. Such a waste."

A waste, indeed. The battlemage's tattoos are handsome—abstract patterns on the right side of his face, reddish in colour, adorned in curves and unexpected turns. Too bad they are nearly too faint to be seen. Age and sweat had ruined the quality to some degree, but nothing that can’t be fixed by a simple visit to another tattoo artist.

"In the Crows, we have these… markings--some have a certain meaning, some are for... uh, what do you call it? Aesthetics. Mostly they accentuate the lines of the face and body," he added nonchalantly. The man didn't seem to be paying attention, which was fine by him. He was just in the mood to talk. "Their meanings are a secret, however—but you wouldn't understand anyway. I imagine... yours must have a meaning as well, no? Or are they merely decorative?"

The battlemage turned to look at him; as if wanting to say something, and then abandoned it.

“… They’re just there to cover up some old scars, Zevran. You wouldn’t understand.”

"Fair enough."

Was it an accidental sentiment? Was he hiding something? Perhaps both. Not that it mattered.

"In any case, should you wish to repaint them, or make them over..., I have some tools that might help." The assassin laughed again. "I could even do it for you, if you like."

There was silence for two seconds. Preparing himself for a brash response such as "touch my face and I'll tear your arms off", he was pleasantly surprised when Oris quietly said, "Will keep that in mind," and resumed his browsing.

Progress!

_._

_._

_._

"Listen, _assassin_. At this point, I'm keeping an eye on you and won't be hesitant to shove that dagger down your throat and ship your corpse back to Antiva, should you attempt to harm me or my companions."

Then his gaze softened, and his posture relaxed, and his stern expression turned into a small, but honest smile. They may not be friendly just yet, but they are certainly getting there.

"… Until then, yes; we _are_ friends. Just watch my back and I'll watch yours. We’ll face the Blight together and all that.”

"Sounds good to me." The assassin nodded. "Especially the watching-your-back part."

"What?"

Even if it takes them a hundred years…, Zevran will gladly, happily, _patiently_ wait for it.

"Nothing!"

.

.


End file.
